


A Stumble Is Not A Fall

by AlessaGreenwood



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Graphic Description, M/M, Martyrs, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, i have no idea how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-18 19:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20196790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlessaGreenwood/pseuds/AlessaGreenwood
Summary: Aziraphale has been there since the beginning, bearing witness to every martyr since the very first. Crowley has been there to be the angel's crutch.





	A Stumble Is Not A Fall

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came from noticing that Aziraphale was the only angel pictured at the crucifixion. I wondered, was he present at the executions of other martyrs?

She was meant for the pyre. Whether this fate was predestined long before her beginning or chosen on a whim, he didn’t know, but he would not let her suffer alone. Aziraphale watched the young girl follow her escort onto her prepared dais, to be trussed against a pillar promised to burn.

She was a child. Not even twenty mortal years had witnessed her, no more would see her pass. Merely a sapling when put to task in the Almighty’s name, only a girl when Michael appeared before her to deliver her divine commission. Without question she obeyed and was now to pay for that obedience.

The fire crackled and spat from within a sea of male glares and glowers. Aziraphale took note of every holy man present, all in attendance at the burning of an innocent child. Were they as fastened as he to Heaven’s verdict? Were they ordered by a higher power to remain stoic and mark the heinous occasion wordlessly? She would die with the names of saints upon her lips and those same saints would do no more than stand by and bear silent witness.

He was acutely aware of the wetness gathering in his eyes and for not the first time he covered his mouth with one hand. Since the Earth began he had been present for what felt like every chapter and footnote written in the imperceptible hand of God, each time observing some new tragedy never before seen by the people of the world. He had learned to cover his mouth lest a gasp or word of indignation or mercy be heard uttered. To cast doubt on the Almighty’s design was to cast oneself from grace. Aziraphale thought of Crowley.

The demon had always been quite clear in his distaste for the ineffable plan. He’d had his doubts since the beginning, questioning the reasoning behind putting the Tree of Knowledge in such an accessible place to those warned not to partake of its fruit. It was a deliberate ploy by the Almighty, of course, all according to the Plan. Aziraphale took comfort in the unknowing of it; relinquishing his divine blade to the fleeing mortals must surely have been part of Her intent, else he would have suffered for the act. Humanity had greatly needed the fire in the long run for with it came growth, ingenuity and the invention of civilization.

Scorching heat washed over Aziraphale as he stood there with a shine of guilt and regret in his open watery gaze, watching the girlchild burn within the snapping flames. In Grecian lore, Prometheus paid for his sin of giving mankind fire with the pain of having his liver ripped from him, devoured before his eyes and then regrown for the deed to replay for all eternity. Aziraphale wondered if one could ever grow accustomed to that sort of pain, to where it no longer felt like a punishment but rather a duty earned, to be performed for as long as his sin be remembered.

The angel kept vigil over the maid’s passing, long after her ashes mixed with the embers and her corporation lost completely. The crowd of onlookers had dispersed some time ago, leaving the single bystander companionless. Aziraphale felt alone, for reasons other than the lack of audience.

She wasn’t the first child he had seen martyred in the Lord’s name, there had been scores before her. He had been present at the execution of the first. It had been difficult but he had been warned of it, he knew it was coming and what it would mean for all of God’s creations in time. The whole of Heaven had been prepared for it. Every martyr since, however, was a fresh travesty.

The hardest to rationalize were the children, always the children. Heaven was peopled with the Saints of those who had once been children. Dymphna, Eulalia, Justus, Reparata. Her name would be added to that catalog years from now, humankind would someday venerate her. It was just another rainbow.

Unshed tears were blinked away and Aziraphale lowered the hand at his mouth. With enough time he composed himself, none could look upon him and discern a troubled mind.

“Shame, that,” A voice like an anchor broke through Aziraphale’s shaky facade. A new warmth spread over him, an internal fire sparked from fond memory. The one thing Aziraphale knew he could depend on, the mooring his unsteady soul found purchase to.

“Crowley,” The angel swallowed the word, the latter vowel choked partially through with a whimper. The dark, lanky demon sauntered up to stand at Aziraphale’s side, his yellow eyes hidden behind a pair of dark glass pince-nez. Crowley’s focus was fixed on the burnt remains of the smoldering podium upon which the girl had been executed.

“Heard she was brilliant in battle,” He sighed. “Suppose your lot was done with her, eh? Wonder what the point was. You know, in the end. You got her this far then let her die. Why? What for?”

Aziraphale wanted to scream. _This isn’t my fault! I didn’t know she was going to die! I don’t like this any more than **you** do!_

“We’re not meant to ask questions, Crowley,” The angel chided with a tense look. “It all fits into the Plan. We just have to have faith.” _**I** have to have faith. Lord, let my faith not waver, keep me steady. Please. _

Crowley turned his shielded gaze to Aziraphale, his expression expertly masked behind the near-black lenses. His watchful stare lingered far longer than comfort allowed and Aziraphale began to squirm beneath the scrutiny. Could Crowley sense the struggle Aziraphale wrestled with, the need to conform and the want to defy, to question?

“Have you seen the cathedral yet?” Crowley asked with a tilt of his head. Aziraphale frowned at the unexpected change of topic.

“Cathedral? What cathedral, what are you talking about?” The angel was confused. Crowley motioned with a nod of his head, away from the charred square.

“Great big stone building, heard it’s beautiful. You’d like it,” Crowley turned from the scene and waited for Aziraphale to turn with him. Aziraphale stood a moment longer, his eyes lingering on the now cold site. He murmured a quick prayer for the girl’s soul, waited just a beat then departed with the demon by his side.

“You do know you won’t be able to enter a cathedral, don’t you, my dear?” Aziraphale pointed out. Crowley shrugged as they walked on.

“Prefer the statues on the outside, anyway,” He replied.


End file.
